Cracked and Crazed
by happycabbage75
Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain... Season 5, Post “The End.”
1. Chapter 1

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

Disclaimer: Definitely not mine. Just borrowing. Blatantly. For my own (possibly evil) purposes.

_This story is set in season five between "The End" and "Fallen Idol", so the boys are back together, but they just aren't quite back in the swing of things. In a word… awkward._

Chapter One

* * *

Dean sat across the scratched diner table from Sam. His brother was reading a newspaper since there was no Wi-Fi in the vicinity. He doubted some of these people had ever even heard of Wi-Fi. This was the back of beyond, better known as rural Arkansas. Dean nearly snorted. He didn't really need to add the rural part. It was just Arkansas, land of scrub trees, mud and way too many places that refused to take credit cards. His cash was running low already because it'd been a while since he'd managed to find ten minutes to relax enough to hustle pool or cards, and their motel wouldn't take credit. What good was a master's degree in credit card fraud when this entire freaking town-

"Dean?"

"What?" he growled.

"They don't take cards. Deal with it."

Dean narrowed his eyes. "Why should I? I'm pretty sure not taking credit cards is one of the signs of the apocalypse."

Sam sighed and put his paper down on the table. "Not funny."

Dean grinned for the first time since entering the diner which had a large paper sign in the window saying, _Cash Only_. "Oh, come on, Sam. What good's an apocalypse if you can't laugh once in a while?"

"It's not good, man. That's the whole point."

Dean rolled his eyes. Sometimes, his brother had about as much sense of humor as Cas did. Of course, the mess they were in and the fact that Sam was ground zero weren't helping. Dean was pretty sure Sam had left lighthearted somewhere back… well, Dean wasn't sure when, but it was a long time ago.

Dean just looked at his brother for a few seconds. Sam looked the same, same too-long hair, same too-tall frame, same semi-worried why-are-you-staring-at-me-like-that expression, yet it was all different. They'd been back together for a few days now. Dean was still reeling from what had happened, or was going to happen in the future and Sam was still massively twitchy from finding out he was you-know-who's vessel, and they just weren't… meshing.

Maybe it was the trust thing. Dean _wanted_ to trust Sam. He wanted to trust him so badly, but then he remembered Sam standing there with demon blood on his face, daring Dean to condemn him. He remembered Sam's furious, "Quit bossing me around." He remembered Sam's hands around his throat, his "You don't know me." Worst of all, he remembered Sam, standing in a garden in a white suit. He remembered that Sam had said, "Yes."

Dean had always been proud of Sam. From the day the kid was born, Dean wasn't just Dean anymore. He was Sam's brother. It had been an honor to hold that place. Sam had been better than Dean. Always. Sam was kinder, more thoughtful, gentle, and brilliant. Yet he was also a skilled hunter. He could shoot and fight with the best. He was also braver. Dean could face down a snarling wendigo without batting an eye, but Dad? Only Sam had dared to face him down. Dean had always known Sam was the brains of their operation while Dean was the muscle. Dean had broken in hell, and really, that had been inevitable. He just wasn't strong enough, never had been. But Sam… He'd _thought_ Sam was better than that, stronger.

Now, Dean thought maybe he'd been wrong. Maybe he'd been mistaken all these years. Maybe there was something he'd missed, something in Sam that he hadn't seen.

Dean had always been proud. He loved his brother, always would, but… even though Sam was clean now, every once in while, just for a second, Dean found himself _ashamed_, and that was wrong on so many levels.

Dean gritted his teeth and ordered those thoughts away. Sam was right in front of him, practically wearing a hair shirt and beating his breast in remorse. Sam was desperate to try to atone for his sins, and Dean knew all about that. Sam was determined never to say, "Yes," and Dean knew all about that, too.

They were so screwed.

Dean cleared his throat and picked up another piece of bacon from his plate. "So you see anything in the paper?"

Sam looked at him, uncertainty crossed with worry on his face, but finally shook his head as if he'd given up trying to understand his brother. Or maybe he understood all too well.

Sam turned the paper around and tapped a finger over a story at the bottom of the page. "They had another one pop up overnight."

"Crap." Dean picked up the paper and quickly skimmed the article. It was more of the same thing that had brought them to town in the first place. Over the past month, grave after grave had popped open and the coffins had practically shot out of the ground. Each morning, the caretaker would find the coffin standing on end, the top open and the body tumbled out. The locals were attributing it to some really nasty vandals, but to the discerning eye, a dozen graves opening by themselves had been a little too apocalypse-y for comfort.

"There's still nothing about which graves are opening," Dean observed.

"Probably don't want the families to complain. Or they're so old no one cares anymore."

"The cameras they put around the cemetery haven't shown anything. Says here, it's just fuzz when they look at the video."

Sam huffed at that. "Could be demons."

"Could be ghosts," Dean countered.

"Could be pervs who like digging people up."

"Could be kids who are smart enough to cut the security before they go in."

Sam frowned. "What kid thinks that's fun?"

Dean shrugged. "That's what we did on weekends."

"Yeah, but it wasn't for fun."

Dean grinned. "It had its moments. Remember that time you hit Dad with the shovel?"

Sam grimaced. "How could I forget?"

"He was so out of it, he didn't know what happened and thought the ghost did it. He was yelling at me to get the salt and you were just standing there with this look on your face like you were sure Dad was gonna kill you." Dean laughed while mimicking Sam's openmouthed, bug-eyed expression that would be forever etched into his mind. "It was the most fun I had that entire year." And yet another reason he couldn't see his brother as evil incarnate.

Sam smiled a little, although more sedately. "You never told him, did you?"

"Dude, what fun would that be?" He might have been John Winchester's number one soldier, but sometimes he and Sam had been like any other kids who enjoyed putting one over on their oblivious parent. Of course, that was long before Sam had taken to putting one over on his oblivious brother.

"So are you ready?" Sam asked warily, something in Dean's expression having warned him of the shift in mood. "We can go check out the cemetery."

"Sure." Dean threw a couple of dollars on the table and then scooted out of the booth and headed for the register. The middle-aged waitress rang up their order and then stood there waiting.

"You know if you're going to charge this much, you should really take credit cards." The waitress just sighed and kept standing there. "Need a freakin' cosigner for some freakin' pancakes," he muttered. Dean pulled the money out of his wallet and scowled. He had maybe twenty five bucks left. If the hunt took too long, they were going to be hurting. He snatched his change from the woman and crammed it back into his wallet.

"Thank you. Breakfast was wonderful," Sam said, as if trying to be overly polite to make up for Dean's surliness.

Dean just grunted and led the way to the car. It was amazing how much more polite his brother could be when he wasn't hopped up on demon blood. Go figure.

Dean waited in silence for Sam to get in then pulled out of the parking lot. It was a little town and it took all of thirty seconds to drive from one side where the diner was to the other where the town's only graveyard was located. They pulled up outside the police tape and Dean cut the engine.

The police had put up a large blind to keep passersby from gawking and rightly so. Dean straightened his tie and walked around it, and he and Sam both stopped in their tracks. The papers hadn't done it justice.

The coffin wasn't completely out of the ground. It was sticking up halfway out, the door to the top half had swung open, and the body, this one definitely fresher than a lot they'd dealt with, was slumped forward, hands braced on the ground as if the body was trying to pull itself out of the grave.

Suddenly, Dean could taste dirt. He could feel it in his eyes. It was in his nose and mouth. His hands scrabbled for purchase, tearing his nails and skin, desperate to reach the surface. He'd been buried too far under. He wasn't going to make it. He was going to die, again, because Sam had buried him too deeply.

He felt a hand clutching his arm, the fingers bruising.

Dean couldn't breathe.

* * *

_A little something to get Sam and Dean back on the road to recovery. Well, as recovered as two really screwed up (but magnificent) guys can get. More soon…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

_Thank you very much for the kind reviews. So we had Dean's thoughts last chapter. Let's see how Sam's doing, eh?_

Chapter Two

* * *

Sam turned when he heard Dean make a faint choking sound. His brother was white as a sheet, his eyes glued to the body. Sam grasped Dean firmly by the upper arm, afraid he was going to pass out, but after a few seconds Dean suddenly blinked, took in a slow, deliberately measured breath, as if making sure no one would notice just how freaked he was, and shrugged off Sam's hand, all without even acknowledging that anything was wrong.

Sam took a step back. In his head he could still hear his brother saying, "I just don't think I can trust you." Now, Dean had _asked_ him to come back, but still... there it was. Dean might trust him to go after the bad guys, he might trust him to help the good guys, but Dean wouldn't trust him with the most important thing. Dean didn't trust Sam to take care of _him_. Dean had asked him to come back, but he was still keeping Sam at a distance. His brother sounded nice and friendly, supportive even, and other than the occasional, and deserved, cracks about what had happened, Dean seemed fine, but all the same, they were together, but Dean was still working and thinking like he was all on his own.

So now Dean was looking at a body that appeared to be crawling out of its own grave, and he wasn't even going to admit that he was freaked in an I-once-had-to-crawl-out-of-my-own-grave-and-it-was-about-as-fun-as-you-might-think kind of way.

Sam ordered himself not to get angry. His brother had never been one to show or tell when he was really troubled. The guy had managed to keep it bottled up for months that he remembered his time in hell and Sam had been so caught up in his own game of hide and seek with Ruby that he'd barely even noticed until it was so obvious a two year old would have picked up on it.

Add that Sam had managed to thoroughly, and maybe permanently, damage the bond between them, and Sam could hardly blame his brother for not wanting to tell him about what was going on with him. To get Sam away from Ruby, Dean had yelled, begged and pleaded and then physically fought him, and time after time Sam had turned him away, the last time brutally.

Even though he knew all of that was true, he still felt himself getting annoyed with his brother's standoffishness. After everything he'd done, maybe it wasn't logical for Sam to feel hurt, maybe Sam deserved every slight, every wound, every insult the universe could throw at him, but Dean... to have Dean treat him differently, even though he deserved it, was one of the hardest burdens to bear.

Dean was all he really had left. The angels couldn't stand him, he'd doomed the rest of the human race, and most of the demons weren't all that fond of him either, except they weren't willing to cross Lucifer's chosen vessel. But Dean had asked him to come back, heaven's chosen weapon, was willing to remain at Sam's side.

There was just that last little bit of distance that they couldn't quite cross. And it _pissed_ Sam off.

Sam knew it wasn't right. He knew it was a problem that only led to more problems. When they were young, he'd been pissed about hunting, about moving all the time, so he'd quit and refused to have anything to do with Dean or their dad. He got pissed about Dean being Dean and left him in Indiana to get tied to a tree and the second time, snatched by Gordon to get tied to a chair. He got pissed about Dean's deal and he'd done so many unbelievably stupid things he was still amazed that anyone could ever think he was the brains of their operation, and now... he was getting pissed again that Dean was treating him differently, treating him like he was tainted, treating him like the junkie he was, who had to be watched all the time, treating him like the little brother who had to sit to one side while the grown-ups talked and decided what needed to be done. It wasn't as bad as before they'd split up, but it still wasn't good. And when things went bad between them, Sam knew now just how bad they could get. They could get apocalyptically bad.

Dean shrugged off the nightmare he'd been stuck in and began walking toward a policeman who was standing to one side of the open grave, although Sam noticed his brother kept his eyes slightly averted from the body.

Dean already had his FBI badge pulled by the time he got there, and Sam did the same. He nodded to the officer who looked halfway between annoyed and relieved at their appearance. They were Ford and Hamill today. Dean must have been feeling nostalgic when he picked their ID du jour.

"You wanna tell me what on earth the FBI thinks it has to do with this?" The blue-uniformed policeman waved his hand in an exaggerated sort of flapping motion taking in the grave, the body and apparently the whole situation.

Sam felt kind of sorry for the guy. He was a young officer, the usual burr cop haircut, the usual slightly tight uniform fitted over his vest, but this situation was definitely out of his usual sphere of expertise. Sam didn't presume, however, that the man was dumb, even though he had an accent as thick as mud. Their father had drilled that lesson into them early. Son, he'd say, watch everyone and assume they're smart, lying and dangerous until proven otherwise. Not really a "glass half full" kind of guy, their dad.

"The FBI is interested, Officer Springer," Dean said, a hint of I'm-the-big-bad-FBI-and-you're-not in his voice, "because there have been cases like this in four other states over the past year."

Springer was surprised, but he barely showed it, and Sam's opinion of him went up. Definitely not dumb, even if he did believe the line Dean was selling him.

"We need to compare these grave desecrations with the others to see if we're dealing with the same people," Sam added.

"We been tryin' to tell people it's just vandalism, but," once again Springer did that weird flapping gesture, "I mean... look at this. Does this look like somethin' a coupl'a stupid kids'd do?"

Dean looked down at the body and the tiniest shudder ran through him. Sam frowned, guessing his brother wasn't going to get much sleep that night, or if he did it certainly wouldn't be restful. Not that Sam was doing much better. He had nightmares of his own that refused to leave him alone no matter how badly he needed to rest.

Sam switched on the meter in his pocket and it immediately started squealing, so he turned it right back off. He gave the area a good look. EMF, but no sulfur. At least they had that going for them.

"Is there any pattern you've noticed?" Dean asked.

"Well... yeah," the officer answered, the expression on his face saying he was wondering about their own smarts. "They're all from the same family."

"All of them?" Sam asked. There hadn't been even a hint of that in the newspaper articles.

"Every last one of 'em. Some are pretty fresh, but some of 'em go back to the 1800s. And before y'all ask, yeah, they all look like this. 'Cept the older ones that were in plain wood coffins. The wood had rotted already, so it was just a body looked like it was comin' outta the ground. 'S downright freaky."

Sam saw Dean swallow thickly. "Do you have a list of all the... victims?" Sam asked, unsure how to categorize the bodies.

"Sure thing. Got a map with 'em plotted out on the grounds here, too. I can get it for y'all back at the station."

"That would be great," Dean said. He coughed uncertainly and Sam looked at him again, far too in tune with his brother's nervous habits. "What are you going to do..." Dean did his own version of Springer's hand-flapping.

"I already took pictures for the report." The man shrugged. "I'm just waitin' on the caretaker to get here. He'll re-dig this and bury him again. We'll cross our fingers and hope he don't pop right back up."

"Yeah," Dean's voice was rough as gravel, "I hate it when that happens."

"You and me both."

"Anything special about the family?" Sam inquired. "Anything they're known for locally?"

The officer raised an eyebrow. "You mean apart from a dislike a' stayin' properly planted?" He scratched at his chin absently. "Not really. It's a big family. Been around here since forever. All kinds a' jobs, all kinds a' ages, causes a' death even. Thought maybe we had some kinda freaky devil worshipers or somethin' who were lookin' for a specific type, but there's nothin' 'cept they're all related."

"Directly?" Dean asked.

"Pretty close. Got a couple in-laws in the mix, but they all got the family name anyway. This anything like what y'all were dealin' with in the other cases?"

Dean shot a look at Sam, then cleared his throat and said, "We're not at liberty to discuss the other cases."

Springer rolled his eyes. "Look, I ain't askin' for inside information on your secret squirrel FBI operations. I just wanna know if I can tell people you two are gonna get a handle on this. 'Cause to be honest, we got a heapin' pile a' didly squat."

Sam watched as Dean looked down at the body, not flinching this time, but staring at it directly. "We'll figure this out. We've got a few more… resources… we can tap."

"Good. Now there's Dave with the backhoe." He pointed to a truck pulling up the path with a trailer attached. "I'll call the station and have a copy of the report left at the desk for you, then I gotta go tell Bobby Compton's kids he decided to swim upstream. Lemme know if you need anything else."

Dean nodded and he and Sam headed back toward the car. "I'll tell you what I need." Dean cast one last look over his shoulder. "I need a drink."

* * *

_More soon…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

_Alrighty... Now let's figure out why the Comptons are refusing to stay planted... Well, start to anyway..._

Chapter Three

* * *

Dean straightened his tie, glanced at Sam to make sure he had his game face on, and then knocked on the door.

To be truthful, however, it wasn't Sam he was worried about. The body in the cemetery had really thrown him, which was weird. Yeah, Dean had been buried alive, or been buried and then was alive, but it hadn't ever really bothered him like that. After forty years in hell, having to dig himself out of his own grave hadn't seemed like all that bad a day. As a matter of fact, he would have considered it a nice change of pace on some days.

His dreams were plagued by horrors that he refused to think about in the light of day, but which refused to leave him alone when his mind was unguarded. He had nights when he awoke with his heart pounding so hard, he was convinced that every last triple cheeseburger he'd ever eaten was about to make sure he kicked off again before he could make it to thirty-five.

It hadn't ever been the burial though. Yet he'd taken one look at the body trying to claw its way out of the ground and…

The door opened and a woman appeared. She was in her 60s and had short steel-gray hair. She was dressed very simply in dark pants, a turtleneck and a cardigan, although it was still fairly warm outside. "Can I help you?"

"Mrs. Alice Compton?"

"Yes. What's this about?"

"Ma'am, we're with the FBI." He and Sam both dutifully produced their fake IDs. "We're looking into the recent problems at the cemetery. We understand one of the graves belonged to your father?"

Her formerly open expression suddenly closed and she frowned. "You better come on in."

She led them into the living room and gestured toward the sofa. "Can I get you somethin' to drink?"

"No, thank you. This will just take a few minutes," Sam said, and they waited for her to settle herself in a chair across from them before sitting themselves.

"Now," she said, folding her hands primly in her lap, "I'm guessin' y'all are here because of the complaints."

Dean shot a glance at Sam, who seemed just as clueless. There hadn't been anything in the reports they'd picked up at the police station. "Yes," Dean answered. "Yes, we are. Maybe you can start at the beginning and tell us about it."

"I told the police already who's been doin' this and they just won't listen," she snapped.

"Who do you think is doing it?" Sam asked.

"Why, the Millers, of course."

"What makes you think that?"

"The Millers and the Comptons have been at each other since before I was born. Now, the only people bein' dug up are Comptons. There's no one else who would do such a thing. That no-count family has never been anything but trouble for this town and for us. I know they're the ones doin' this."

Bingo. Nothing like a good old-fashioned feud to create some long-lasting turmoil. "Do you know what started it all?" Dean asked.

"Of course, I do," she said, clearly offended. "Everybody knows. This was an even smaller town back years ago, and there were two men who took care of all the burials, my great grandfather and Timothy Miller. One day, they got in a rip roarin' fight, although nobody's sure what it was about. Next day, my great-grandpa is missin'. He just disappeared. His wife, his kids, they're left high and dry. Everybody knew Timothy had something to do with it, but we couldn't prove anything."

Sam pursed his lips. "He was never found?"

"Never was. Been bad blood between us and the Millers ever since."

Dean just looked at the lady. She seemed like a normal granny type, if a little chilly. This was a nice house, she clearly had some money, her clothes were simple, but upscale. Nevertheless, she was sitting there talking like this was an Arkansas version of the Hatfields and the McCoys, holding onto a grudge from a billion years ago.

"Have other people gone missing?" Sam asked.

The woman scowled. "No. What do you think we are? But we know not to trust 'em, and we stay away from 'em, always have. When we cross paths, sometimes tempers get short, but nothin' we can't handle, a few fist fights, a few shouting matches, but that's it. Until this anyway. This is beyond the pale. They're diggin' up our people. No civilized person would do that."

Dean thought back to the scene at the cemetery and had to agree. The problem was the body didn't look like it'd been dug up. It looked like the guy had been trying to get _himself_ out.

"You're sure you don't know what the fight was about?" Dean asked.

The woman's expression became pinched in annoyance. "What difference does that make? They're diggin' up my family! What kind of sick monster would desecrate graves?"

Dean shifted on the sofa and he noticed Sam scratch at the back of his neck in discomfort.

"We're looking into it," Dean offered. "Is there someone you particularly suspect?"

"Talk to Hattie." She spat the name out as if it were a curse. "Nothing goes on in that family she doesn't know about. Now, you two get over there and you _make_ her tell you why they're doin' this and then you arrest the whole, stinkin', _useless_ lot of 'em. Some families just don't deserve to even _exist_. They're nothing but a plague on this earth."

Dean was already tired of this woman and Sam must have agreed because he stood and very politely said, "Thank you for your time."

* * *

Dean slammed the car door and mentally apologized to his baby, but he was too annoyed and slamming a door was better than hitting an old lady. Yeah, some families were a blight on humanity, but not one that had some sort of dust-up so long ago nobody could even remember it. A Winchester should know. When your family brought on the apocalypse, everything else seemed to sort of pale in comparison.

Dean quickly started the car, wanting to be well away from Alice Compton's home. "Man, that woman's nasty enough I almost wanna dig somebody up just to piss her off."

Sam frowned in disapproval. "Dean, she's had half her family's graves disturbed. Give the lady a break."

"They're arguing with these people and they don't even know why. It's just years and years of picking at each other for no good reason."

"Cause it's fine as long as there's a good reason," Sam stated, something in his voice that had Dean turning to look at him.

The tension in the car was suddenly a weight on Dean's chest, and it was very nearly a repeat of the crushing sensation of grave dirt surrounding him on all sides as he fought for his freedom. Unlike that, however, this was a more common feeling. It was the weight of his brother's anger, his impatience with Dean's continued distrust, stirred up by the woman's ranting. Dean knew he needed to ease up on the snide comments, but a year's worth of having Sam lie to him and sneak around behind his back, getting high on demon blood... It was hard for Dean to just let it go now that Sam was clean and sober and sorry.

But Dean had to let it go. Because if he didn't, it ended up with Sam leaving. It ended with the world in ruins and Sam alone, saying, "Yes."

Dean backed the car out of Mrs. Compton's driveway and drove the two streets over to Hattie Miller's home. Mrs. Compton had been more than happy to cough up the address in hopes of getting the rival matriarch in trouble with the fuzz.

Still not speaking to each other, he and Sam got out of the car and walked up to the house. It was similar to Mrs. Compton's, well kept, not too small, not too large, but definitely some money. It certainly didn't look like anyplace that should have been the other half of a nasty feud.

Sam knocked this time, maybe a little harder than was necessary. Almost instantly, the door flew open. Dean backed up, reached to his waistband and had his gun half drawn when he realized there wasn't anything more dangerous than a sour-faced old woman standing in the doorway.

"She's a liar," the woman who had to be Hattie Miller said. She was practically a clone of Mrs. Compton.

"Ma'am?" Sam's voice rose uncertainly.

"Alice Compton. I know she sent you after me, but you can't trust a word that woman says, believe you me."

Dean cleared his throat, trying to get his game face back on after being startled. "Ma'am, we're with the-"

"I know who you are," she cut him off. "_She_ already called to tell me FBI agents were on their way to arrest me."

Dean shot a look at Sam, who just shrugged, not sure what to do either. "Mrs. Miller, we're not here to arrest you," Dean said. "We just need to ask you a few questions."

"See what I mean?" she demanded. "I told you she was a liar." She turned away from the door muttering under her breath about, "no-count Comptons." Mrs. Miller waved as she moved away, and Dean took it as their cue to follow her inside.

"Have a seat." She pointed toward the flower patterned sofa, almost a replica of Mrs. Compton's. "Can I get you somethin' to drink? Iced tea?"

"Actually, if you could just give us a minute of your time, we'll be on our way," Sam said, using his soothing interrogator's voice. Women loved it. Sam just seemed… trustworthy. And wasn't that ironic.

Dean must have made some sort of noise, because Sam shot him a glance to tell him to quit acting weird. Dean sniffed and returned his focus to the woman as she seated herself in the recliner across from them.

"Mrs. Miller," Sam started, "Alice Compton claims that someone in your family is responsible for all of the problems in the cemetery."

The woman made a chuffing sort of noise. "As if any of us would stoop to such a thing. We don't wanna see Comptons when they're alive, let alone when they're dead."

"Is there anyone in your family that might do something like this?" Dean asked.

Mrs. Miller shook her head with certainty. "No. Not that there isn't a family that deserves trouble more than the Comptons, but this… No decent person would do this and I raised good Christian boys. They might stir up trouble every once in a while, but once a Compton's dead we're more'n happy to let 'em stay that way."

"Do you know what started all of the trouble between your families?"

"Of course, I do," she said indignantly, once again mirroring her Compton counterpart. "My great-grandfather, Timothy, and Dana Compton were farmers, but they were also the gravediggers for the community, so they worked together pretty often. Those days, people died a lot more easily, women in childbirth, children got sick, men in accidents. They got in a rip-snortin' fight one day, the same day Dana's sister died, though nobody knows what the fight was about."

"How did the sister die?" Dean quickly asked.

"A fever." Mrs. Miller's eyes narrowed. "My great-grandfather had nothin' to do with it if that's what you're askin'. She just got sick and died."

Dean held up his hands in surrender. "Got it."

She gave him another glare for good measure, then straightened her shoulders as if arguing with him about it were beneath her dignity. "Next day, word goes around that Dana's gone. His wife and kids are left high and dry. They," she pointed and Dean realized she was pointing in the direction of Alice Compton's house, "have the all-out _nerve_ to say my great-granddaddy had somethin' to do with it. Dana Compton runs off and leaves his wife, can't even be bothered to show up for his own sister's funeral, and they blame _us_!"

"You're sure no one knows what they were fighting about that day?" Sam asked.

"Does it really matter?" she snapped. "They been blamin' us for their own family's shortcomings for years and now they're blamin' us for this grave business. It's offensive is what it is, always blamin' us for things we got nothin' to do with."

Dean could tell she was working up to a full rant, so he stood and Sam followed his lead. "Thank you for your time," he said. "We'll be in touch if there's anything else."

They made a quick retreat, while Mrs. Miller snatched up the phone beside her, and if Dean didn't know better, he'd guess she was calling Alice Compton to gloat that she hadn't been arrested.

Sam and Dean got in the car. Dean quickly pulled out and headed away from the subdivision containing both the Comptons and the Millers.

"You still gonna tell me I should give these old biddies a break?" Dean asked. He'd never been good at being patient with annoying people, or any people for that matter, but since his time in hell he was even less patient. Before Sam's "problem," Dean had always counted on him to be his buffer. Now that his brother wasn't high as a kite, maybe Dean could count on him to be Mr. Stability again. They had to start somewhere.

"Give 'em a break." Sam sighed wearily. "Their families have been messed up a long time. They don't know any better."

Dean rolled his eyes and said sarcastically, "Because ignorance is totally an excuse." Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew his brother was going to take them the wrong way. He so did not want to get into this right now.

Sam went very still, although the wheels inside were no doubt spinning furiously. "You know I don't think... I didn't..."

"Dude, I promise to dog you about your screw-ups later," Dean said a little more stridently than he'd intended. "Can we concentrate on this particular mess?"

"Fine." Sam hands were fists at his sides, but he slowly relaxed them. "So what do we do now?"

"The same thing we do every night, Pinky. We take over the cemetery."

* * *

_More soon..._


	4. Chapter 4

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

_Since the show is going to give us a rerun tonight, I thought y'all might like a new chapter. So... a few answers today._

Chapter Four

* * *

Dean slammed the oversized volume of newspapers shut, earning a glare from the young, but clearly stodgy librarian. Dean ignored her and jammed his fingers into his tired eyes in an attempt to rub some of the weariness away. His back hurt, he had a headache, he felt gritty from all the dust, and he really needed to sneeze. On top of that, no matter how much they'd looked, they'd found exactly two things, jack and squat, and Jack left town. And on top of _that_, Sam kept making photocopies of anything he thought might pan out and copies cost money and now Dean was down another three bucks, which was just terrific.

So far, all they knew was that dating back to when dirt was young, the Comptons and the Millers had been the governing powers in the town, both officially and unofficially. The police blotter read like a series of minor skirmishes, with the occasional full-scale battle, although it was rare for anything to rise above misdemeanor level.

"I think I've got something," Sam said. Dean immediately reached into his pocket for more change for the copier, but Sam waved him off. "Look at this." Sam turned the yellowed book around for Dean to see.

"What am I looking at?" The pages were handwritten and faded, but it appeared to be lists of names and dates.

"Burial records," Sam replied.

"And from the smug look on your face, I'm guessing you found something interesting."

Sam's spine stiffened, very slightly. "I'm not smug."

"Dude, you're totally smug." Dean kept his voice light, trying to ward off the barest hint of irritation in Sam's voice. He hadn't been criticizing, just playing, but Sam was feeling a bit... sensitive after the remark earlier, wary of him, as if Dean could lash out at any given moment. Problem was, at times, Dean was still so on edge around Sam, he knew he might. "Just tell me what you found already."

Sam pointed to an entry. "This is Dana Compton's sister. She was buried on the 12th."

"And?"

"See this burial?"

"On the 10th. It's not a Miller or a Compton. What's your point?"

"Compton went missing, Dean. Right before his sister was buried and they never found the body."

"So..."

"Miller and Compton were gravediggers. They would have taken care of that burial."

Dean grimaced. "Tell me you're not thinking what you're thinking."

Sam shrugged. "Those graves... they look like someone's trying to crawl out of one."

"Miller killed Compton and stuffed him in with the other dead body and nobody was the wiser. Ghost's trying to… get away or something?"

Sam's eyebrows rose. "Handy way to get rid of somebody you don't want found. The hole's already there."

"Yeah, and Compton would've helped him dig it, no less." Dean shuddered. "Man... and we think our luck's crap."

Sam hesitated as if deciding whether that was a jab or not, but apparently set it aside. "Question is, why's the ghost acting up now?"

Dean frowned in thought. "No clue. Everything in the report says the Comptons just started jumpin' out of their holes like prairie dogs with their asses on fire."

Sam scrunched up his nose in distaste. "Thanks for the visual, Dean."

Dean just grinned happily in the knowledge that Sam might be a semi-reformed blood junkie, but he could still be mildly scandalized by his brother's low-brow humor.

Sam stood up with the book. "Let me make a copy of this page and then we'll head out."

Dean handed over the last of his pocket change and stood to pull his jacket on. He was definitely going to have to find a pool game somewhere. He was worried about leaving Sam to his own devices, but he knew he was going to have to trust Sam on his own eventually. If Sam fell off the wagon, well... he'd deal with that when the time came.

Dean cast a sidelong glance at his brother, standing patiently at the photocopier just like Dean had seen him do a thousand times before. It was like the last disastrous year had never happened. But however much it looked the same, it didn't feel that way. That trust, that bond between them, it wasn't the same. Ruby had seen to that.

Dean thought of Compton and Miller. Whatever had happened to the two partners to make it go so wrong, they'd worked side by side at one point. The same thing could have easily happened with him and Sam, too easily. After the mess with War, they'd both just walked away, and then like a jackass, when Sam had called him, he'd _pushed_ Sam away. It had taken Zack's meddling to wake Dean up to what a huge mistake he was making. After all these years trying to protect his brother, he'd nearly handed Sam over on a silver platter. For all intents and purposes, he'd almost killed his brother and with him the world. Dean knew they were still having trouble, but he couldn't let it fall apart. They _had_ to work something out.

Sam finished and put the burial record back on the table. He threw Dean the leftover quarter and he caught it one handed. Dean had to believe they would get there. They'd get back into their groove. Sam would never say yes. In the meantime, Dean would just have to figure out how to keep a Sasquatch fed in this cash-only burg.

* * *

Dean walked down one scattered line of headstones, pacing Sam as he walked down another, eyes scanning for the grave they needed.

"Miller, Miller, Miller, Miller, Compton." Dean snorted. "Dude, I feel like I'm playing _duck, duck, goose_."

"As long as it's not _heads up, seven up_," Sam replied. "We don't want anybody popping up out of the ground while we're here."

"You can say that again."

"We don't want anybody-"

"Sam?" Dean stopped and his brother did as well. He waited for Sam to look at him. "Shut up."

Sam broke out in a genuine grin and Dean matched it. Maybe it was memories of the games they'd played as children, or that no matter how badly they were getting along, in this one thing, hunting for a grave amidst a sea of headstones, they were in tune again. Mostly. Dean felt his grin falter slightly as the memory of Sam with blood on his face, Sam crushing the life out of him with his bare hands, Future-Sam snapping Dean's neck like a twig. Separating them had been like falling off a log, it'd been so easy. Sam's death, the deal, Dean's death... Throw a bitch demon in the mix, and their tried and true partnership had fallen to crap.

Sam was frowning, and Dean cleared his throat, brushing the thoughts aside. "Ya know, I'd be a pissed off ghost too if my name was Dana." He pointedly returned to studying names on tombstones.

"Why?" Dean wasn't looking, but he heard Sam start moving again.

"Seriously? Dana? Totally a chick name."

Sam huffed out a laugh. "There are lots of names that were primarily male that have been co-opted by women. Beverly, Ashley, Meredith, Leslie, Shannon… John Wayne's real name was Marion."

"Yeah, and see how fast the Duke changed that one." Maybe Dean was a little sensitive. Because there was no way on earth he could tell anyone he was named after his grandmother. Who named their son, their _first_ son no less, after their _mother_? Especially when there was a perfectly good male name to be used. By all rights, he should be Sam and then they should have figured out how to use Deanna. If he ever had a chance to talk to his parents again, he was so going to have words with them about that one.

"You're just touchy because-"

"Sam?" Dean said again. "Pretty sure I told you to shut up."

Sam laughed this time, but let it go and went back to concentrating on the job. Thirty seconds later, he called, "Got it."

Dean turned and realized he'd wandered a little farther down the path than his brother had. As he watched, Sam sank into the ground up to his ankles. He cried out in surprise and fought to free himself, even as he continued to sink up to his knees.

"Sam!"

"Dean!"

Dean broke into a run and skidded to a stop just as Sam dropped his flashlight and put his hands on the ground, bracing himself to keep from sinking farther into the ground. It was like he was in quicksand, only the ground was perfectly dry. Dean dropped to his knees and tried to dig at the ground around Sam's legs even as it sucked him farther in.

Dean could feel the dirt beneath his nails, felt the nails tear in his frantic attempts to free his brother, but it was useless. Sam was pushing against the ground with every bit of strength in his upper body and if that wasn't going to get it done, what chance did Dean have?

Sam was buried up to his hips now and sinking fast. Dean pulled the salt canister out of the duffel Sam had dropped beside him and Dean tore the top off, throwing it in a cloud around his brother, then making a full circle, but it had no effect. Whatever this was, it was under the ground and it wanted Sam with it.

Dean abandoned his attempts to dig around Sam and stood up. He braced his legs in a wide stance. "Sam, grab my hand!" he ordered. Immediately, Sam gave up trying to hold himself up. He wrapped both hands around Dean's forearm and held on with a bruising grip while Dean did the same.

He strained until he was sure he would pass out, desperate to keep Sam from sinking any further, even though he was nearly shoulder deep now. It took a second for Dean to realize that part of the problem was that he too was sinking. He quickly lost any height advantage he'd had and Sam's eyes widened in terror as first his mouth then his nose sank below the surface.

Sam disappeared about the time Dean was hip deep in grave dirt. He frantically tried to climb back out, bent at the waist, scrabbling for any sort of purchase, but he sank and sank, dragged from below. He made a last desperate grasp for the canister of salt, but it scooted out of his grasp and rolled away just as he took in a final gasp of air and was sucked under.

* * *

_More soon..._


	5. Chapter 5

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

_So the boys are buried. Let's see if we can't get them out of there…_

Chapter Five

* * *

Sam's lungs were screaming for air, but he knew that if he opened his mouth all he would suck in would be dirt. He was going to die. This was it. He knew Dean was being buried with him, and thanks to the carvings on their ribs, neither Cas nor Lucifer would ever find them. The last Winchesters would simply disappear without a trace… and maybe that wasn't a bad thing.

Sam distantly wondered if he would even know he was losing consciousness. It wasn't like it could get any darker than already being buried. All he knew was that he couldn't breathe and the desire to try was becoming overwhelming.

Light… He could see light now through his closed lids, and wondered if it was _the_ light. It became brighter and brighter and even though he knew he shouldn't, he opened his eyes.

Sam was standing in the cemetery, only it was broad daylight. Dean stood across from him, but somehow Sam knew it wasn't really Dean. Or it was, but it wasn't. His clothes were what he would expect to see on a farmer 150 years ago. Sam looked down and saw that he was in similar clothing, rough homespun trousers, a shirt that if he had to guess was made out of flour sack material.

"You killed her," Dean accused, his voice rough as gravel.

"I was trying to help," Sam said, although he hadn't really meant to say anything. He was himself, but he wasn't. He knew somehow that he was Dana Compton, facing off with Timothy Miller all those years ago.

"Help? You knew how much she meant to me. How could you do this? I thought you were my friend, Dana! "

"I _am_ your friend, Tim, but my sister was more important. I had to protect her!"

"So you killed my child?" Dean screamed. "The woman I loved? She was my whole world and you killed her!"

"She meant so much to you, you couldn't marry her before you took her?" Sam threw back at him. "My sister was a good girl!" Sam, or rather Dana Compton, shouted. "You just couldn't hold out. You had to have her and you took her, damn the consequences, and look what happened. She was ruined, ruined and pregnant. What would she have been in this town, thanks to you?"

"And now she's dead, thanks to _you_," Dean spat.

"I was just tryin' to clean up your mess. I knew you didn't have the guts to do it." Yes, Dana was furious with his friend, but Sam could also feel the horrible weight of Dana's guilt, felt it down to his bones. His sister, Molly, had begged him to help her. She'd come to him and told him she was pregnant and that Timothy was the father. She would never be able to hold her head up again once word of it got out, not to mention the child. A bastard would have no place in the community, no decent place anyway. She'd asked him to help her take care of the problem, and Dana had. He'd found someone who was willing to do it, a devil's bargain if ever there was one. He'd known there would be hell to pay. Just not so soon. After seeing the doctor, his sister had developed a fever and died. Puerperal fever, Sam knew. In times past, it had been commonplace for women to die soon after childbirth or a miscarriage due to the lack of sterile technique.

Dana chose to ignore what Timothy might have felt about the pregnancy. Compton had convinced himself he was doing the right thing to help his sister, no matter how much he hated the method of protecting her reputation. He'd thought he was fixing things before they got out of hand, but he'd been wrong. He'd thought he was saving his sister, and he'd helped kill her.

The shovel came out of nowhere. It caught Dana on the side of the head and the next thing Sam knew, he was in darkness again. It wasn't the same black of being surrounded by dirt, and the smell… he knew that smell. Once a person had been around it, he could never mistake it for anything else. Flesh, decay, rot… not too far gone though. Panic rippled through him and he screamed. He was lying on top of old Abe Smith. He instinctively tried to sit up and smacked his head against the wood of what he knew had to be the top of the coffin. He reached out, his head pounding in time with his heart and felt the sides of the wooden, hand-hewn box he and Timothy had made only hours before.

Desperate to save himself and get away from old Abe, Dana beat his hands against the lid, further panicked at the tiny trickle of dirt that fell through the wooden slats. Sam jammed his fingers between the slats and pried at them. Almost immediately, they snapped under the weight of the dirt above them. In a frenzy, Dana fought his way upward, disoriented, frantic… trapped. It was too far. He was too deep and the ground was packed down and no matter how much he wanted to push the dirt down into the coffin below and free himself, it wouldn't happen. He couldn't breathe. Dirt filled his nose and mouth and he couldn't move any farther, up or down. He was trapped halfway in, halfway out of the coffin.

He was a dead man, and maybe he deserved to be for what he'd done, but not like this… No one deserved this, and certainly not at the hands of Timothy Miller who was as much to blame as he was. Timothy had ruined her. He'd started all of this, and he somehow thought that wasn't as important as the way it had ended.

His family… they needed to know where he was… He couldn't let it end like this… He had to be found…

Consciousness faded, only to once again explode to life. Sam was Sam again, although he too was fading now. The desperate urge to breathe, the crushing weight of the ground around him pressing on his chest, constricting his lungs, it was all too much.

Sam didn't realize what it was at first, then it became louder, a rumbling beneath him. The ground all around him shook with a force that rattled his bones and nearly startled a gasp from him before he remembered that to do so would mean his death.

The rumbling and shaking grew until it felt as if the dirt were bubbling up around him. Hands wrapped around one of his legs from below. For a second Sam considered screaming, but then he realized he was not being held down, the hands shifted and began pushing him upward. Dean. Always Dean trying to push, pull, drag, shove him back into the light.

The ground around him continued to tremble and shift, and finally Sam felt himself being thrown upwards, vomited out by Dean's efforts and the earth's violent movement.

Air, sweet, sweet air. Sam rolled onto his side and sucked in huge lungfuls of air, just relearning the action of drawing breath in and out.

Sam opened his eyes and realized the rumbling had stopped. He was lying at the rim of a rough-edged hole several feet wide. He scanned the area and saw that his brother was still missing.

"Dean!" Sam pushed himself to his knees, lightheaded at the sudden change in altitude. He clumsily crawled his way toward the hole and peered in, but he couldn't see a thing in the darkness. He'd lost his flashlight somewhere, and wasn't it a kick in the head that a guy always needed a flashlight to find a flashlight.

Sam reached for their duffel bag and cursed as he was forced to waste precious seconds fumbling for a spare. Finally, he pulled it free and shone it down into the hole. Their backup flashlight was smaller than their norm, and especially annoying at the moment since what he wanted was a full bat signal sized spotlight.

Sam slid forward until he was leaning down into the hole, but there was nothing visible. He stuck the flashlight between his teeth and scooted farther forward until he was hanging over the edge at the waist. Sam dug his hands into the dirt and began shifting it as quickly as he could. In only a few seconds, his fingers struck something. He brushed the dirt away and realized it was hair, more specifically the top of Dean's head.

His breath coming in gasps, Sam furiously began to dig around his brother, finally sliding into the hole to get enough leverage to wrap his arms beneath Dean's and pull him upward. It was a struggle, but at last between a lot of awkward tugging, more digging, and a very useless round of wishing for a backhoe, he managed to pull Dean free.

"Dean?" Sam set him on the ground and dropped down next to him. He shone the light on his face and saw that Dean's skin was ash white and his lips were blue. Sam put his ear close to Dean's face. He was breathing. It was shallow, but it was there.

"Dean? Can you hear me?" Sam gave him a firm smack on his cheek. Dean's eyes were half open, but Sam could tell nobody was home. "Dean? You in there, man?" He smacked his cheek again, but still got no response. Sam's eyes travelled to the open grave beside them. He didn't know if Dean had seen the same things he had, but Sam knew for certain that his brother had already lived through one burial. Dean's reaction to their first visit to the graveyard told Sam just how much his brother hadn't needed to go through it again.

"Police! Don't move!"

Sam raised his hands and froze in place. He heard the cop step closer, but didn't move until he knew what he was dealing with.

"What do you two morons think you're doin'?" the officer demanded. He finally stepped close enough and Sam recognized Officer Springer at the same time he recognized Sam. Wisely, Springer kept his gun carefully aimed at him. "You wanna tell me what you're doin' out here in the middle of the night, diggin' up a grave? Not to mention, it looks like the camera system's been tampered with."

"Look, I don't have time to explain right now. I need to make sure my b... partner's all right."

Springer's eyes narrowed. "I'm not movin' a muscle until you tell me what you two were up to," he stated firmly. "I may be a hick, but I got a telephone and you two are no more FBI than I am Miss America."

Absurdly, Sam noted that the man had a bigger flashlight than he did, giving him a very definite case of Male Flashlight Envy. "Look, we're trying to fix this mess," Sam snapped. "You people certainly weren't going to get it done."

Springer began to edge sideways and Sam carefully remained where he was, his eyes bouncing between the man's gun and Dean, who was still staring blankly up into the sky through half-open eyes. Of all times for his brother to go catatonic, this was possibly one of the worst.

"What the..." Springer's gun wavered as he looked down into the hole.

Sam, too, shone his light down into the hole and saw what Springer had seen, Dana Compton's skeleton. Pulling Dean out of the ground had unearthed the skeleton where it was trapped, halfway to the surface. A tree root had pierced the skeleton's rib cage, and appeared to be shifting it to the point of breaking. Sam didn't know if that had been enough to stir the spirit after all this time, but he supposed it was possible.

Springer turned back to Sam, fury on his face. "We got enough problems without you two comin' in here causin' more. So, you two have some serious questions to answer just as soon as I call Dave to close up this grave again."

As soon as the words left his mouth, the ground began to quake violently. The shaking grew and grew, Sam shone his light out across the graves and saw the earth beginning to shift and bubble up.

Coffins, _all_ of them, began to appear, not just Comptons or Millers, but every last coffin in the cemetery.

* * *

_In case you were wondering, MFE (Male Flashlight Envy) is a very real condition. It's almost as big a problem as MTE (Male Television Envy). More soon…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Cracked and Crazed**

Summary: Coffins are popping up out of their graves. It could be a sign, or it could just be a royal pain… Season 5, Post "The End."

_And here you have it... the last chapter. Thank you for all the kind reviews. Hopefully, this was a pleasant diversion while the show was on hiatus._

_Now... The cemetery's going nuts, Dean' spaced out and Sam's got to take care of business..._

Chapter Six

* * *

"You," Sam pointed at Springer, "stay with my brother. Make sure he keeps breathing."

"What are you gonna do?" the man asked, wide-eyed, his voice higher than Sam would have thought possible.

"Just watch him!" he ordered. Sam only waited a few seconds to make sure Springer was doing what he was asked before snatching up their duffel. The shaking ground and shifting earth required some fancy footwork to find the canister of salt that had rolled away, then he found the lighter fluid in the bag. Sam dumped the salt into the hole with one hand while squirting lighter fluid with the other. Dana Compton's skeleton was only partially visible, but hopefully it would be enough.

"Get the lighter out of his pocket," Sam called. To his credit, Springer didn't even balk. Sam supposed that seeing a graveyard full of coffins popping up was enough to convince him this might be out of his jurisdiction. He pulled the lighter out of Dean's hip pocket and tossed it to Sam, who flicked it open, lit it, and threw it into the hole in one smooth motion.

Immediately, the skeleton and the surrounding dirt caught fire. A few seconds later, the shaking stopped. Sam was momentarily disoriented, not unlike stepping on land after being at sea, but the sensation quickly passed. He grabbed his flashlight and he and Springer both cast their light out over the graves and saw coffin after coffin, just bones in the older graves, all at various stages of coming out of the ground.

The ghost had been desperate for his family to find his body. Sadly, he hadn't been able to unearth himself, but he'd certainly managed to get his family's attention that there was a problem in the cemetery.

Sam instantly set that out of his mind and hurried back to Dean. "He's breathing," Springer said, still kneeling on his other side.

Sam wanted to believe him, but he trusted exactly one person in this world and that person was the one down for the count. Sam set his hand on Dean's chest and waited for the rise and fall before he could take a breath of his own.

"Dean?" Sam waved at Springer to back up. Once he did, Sam leaned over Dean so he could look him in the face. "Dean, I don't know what's goin' on in there," he said quietly, "but it's ok. _You're_ ok. You're out." He slapped Dean's cheek. "I need you to snap out of it, man."

Snap out of it. What an idiotic thing to say, Sam berated himself. Dean had always been... off. Not that it wasn't to be expected with a life like theirs. Sam had had Dean to give him some semblance of a childhood, screwed up as it still was, but Dean... He'd had their father and a whole lot of firearms to raise him. Follow that with disaster after disaster, and even before he'd gone to hell, Dean had been carrying around so many issues Sam was amazed the Impala didn't have a hitch for a U-Haul. And then came hell. If Dean had been off before, now he was so far out in left field, it wasn't even funny, not that his brother wasn't very adept at hiding it.

To end forty years of torture, his brother had been forced to dig his way out of his own grave, which Sam was still pissed at Cas about. That was like rescuing an injured animal, patching it up, taking it out to the country to release it and then refusing to open the door on the pet carrier.

So... the insomnia, the drinking like a fish... His brother was so screwed up, it wasn't surprising he'd just shut down in the middle of a rerun.

Sam's voice dropped to a whisper. "Dean, we got the bad guy, ok?" he assured him. No matter their differences, Sam could only hope that his brother at least still trusted him to know that much. "It's over. You're safe, Dean. You hear me? You're safe."

"What's wrong with him?" Springer asked.

Sam felt the lump in his throat grow and threaten to strangle him. "He's... he's just seen too much."

Springer looked out over the cemetery and the coffins springing up like weeds. "Yeah, I can believe that."

Sam saw Dean's blinking change rhythm. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "Sam?" he said hoarsely.

"Yeah." The air in Sam's lungs left in a whoosh. "You all right?"

"You been takin' personal space lessons from Cas?"

Sam let out a burst of choked laughter and sat back on his haunches, giving Dean the space he needed to get himself back together. Sam watched as his brother struggled to sit up, visibly shaky. He looked out over the graveyard and saw all of the coffins, some popped open, bodies seemingly clawing their way out of the graves. He shuddered and his breathing sped up and Sam was tempted to once again move forward to comfort him somehow, but just stopped himself. He knew his brother wouldn't appreciate it.

"So, uh..." Dean cleared his throat, but didn't add anything else. He brought up a hand and brushed dirt out of his hair, then patted at his clothes, busying himself so he didn't have to say anything or look at anybody. Finally, he braced his hands on the ground and pushed himself to his feet.

Dean wobbled noticeably, but he stayed up, actually putting out a hand to keep Sam at bay. The gesture once again rammed home a reminder of the distance separating them. Dean was hurting and freaked, but still he couldn't allow himself to lean on Sam, and Sam felt the guilt and shame afresh of what he'd done, although anger kept trying to creep in that his brother was being stubborn and refusing to accept Sam's change of heart.

Dean turned and realized they weren't alone. Almost immediately, he straightened and his defensive walls snapped into place. "Officer Springer... What brings you by on such a fine night?"

The man looked around them helplessly at the utter upheaval of the entire cemetery and once again he did that weird hand-flapping gesture that Sam had noticed before that said, "I have no clue what to make of this." He stood and walked to the edge of the grave they'd almost been buried in. "You wanna tell me what you two yahoos were doin' diggin' up this grave?"

"Technically, we were digging our way out of it." Dean tried for a laugh, but it was too tense to sound real.

"What were you two doin'?" Springer demanded again, pulling out his no-nonsense cop voice. "I know y'all aren't FBI and unless I hear somethin' useful comin' outta somebody's mouth right quick, y'all are goin' to jail."

Dean looked down into the hole and pointed. "See for yourself."

"Officer Springer," Sam made the introduction, "meet Dana Compton."

The policeman's mouth actually fell open. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

Dean snorted. "Nah. Sam's sense of humor's always been kinda limited. Although there was this one time, he took a spatula-"

"Dean."

"Right," he said, slightly abashed. "Anyway, this is Dana. Timothy Miller hit him with a shovel while they were burying Abe Smith and buried 'em together."

"Dana woke up inside the coffin," Sam added. "He tried to dig his way free, but he didn't make it."

Springer looked from one of them to the other. "You tryin' to tell me a dead guy's been makin' all this mess?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "We in the same cemetery? Cause from where I'm standin' this ain't what I'd call normal."

"But..." Springer was completely stymied. "This..." He looked back at the skeleton, clearly forgetting he was a policeman and they were criminals. At the moment, he was just a frustrated, freaked out guy in charge of a messed up town. "If this gets out, the Comptons and the Millers are gonna... It's gonna be bad. They already hate each other. I mean..." He glanced at Sam, wide-eyed. "You shoulda seen the county fair last year. It gave new meanin' to the term goat ropin'. You just... I mean..."

"You willing to take a suggestion?" Dean asked.

Springer frowned. "Maybe."

Dean looked out over the cemetery at all the coffins popping out of the ground. "Gas."

Springer blinked in confusion. "Come again?"

"Call Dave and get his backhoe in here to plant everybody again and you tell the town this was an underground gas line explosion causing all the problems or a freak gas pocket or something. People will believe anything if you tell them it was gas."

"But..."

"Look, we took care of this for you," Dean said, shifting into authoritarian mode, heading toward irritated. "You think it's a better idea tellin' 'em this was a dead guy makin' coffins pop up to let people know he was trapped himself, then have at it, but we're gonna leave town. You want our advice, you sweep this under the rug and move on. Got it?"

Springer bristled momentarily, then scanned the disaster area that was formerly the town cemetery. "Y'all are sure this is over?"

"Positive," Sam said. "Although, if I were you, I'd pull Dana out of this grave and bury him alone."

Springer nodded. "Seems the decent thing to do. And Dave knows well enough not to set off the Comptons and Millers."

"And that's what's important." Dean shook his head. He grabbed up their duffel and headed toward the car. "Come on, Sam."

* * *

Dean sat on the bed, still covered in dirt. Sam was in the shower where Dean had urged him as soon as they got back to the motel room. It somehow seemed appropriate. Sam was trying to clean himself up, and Dean... all he could do was sit there and feel vaguely dirty and useless and like he should be doing something, but he didn't know what.

He was still embarrassed that he'd checked out and left Sam to take care of the body alone. Sam hadn't said anything, but Dean had been awake, sort of, when the ground had begun to shake and the coffins had done their modified gopher routine. He just hadn't been able to move or think, not clearly anyway. He'd come out of the vision only to find he was still buried in the dirt and unable to move or breathe, and all of a sudden it had been a year earlier and he'd been climbing out of his coffin, desperate to get free, desperate to find his way back to Sam after forty years of non-stop torture, only this time he didn't make it. Sam was still going to be alone, and Dean was being tortured beyond what he'd already suffered. They'd let him taste freedom, only inches away, and then snatched it away because he wasn't strong enough.

Dean knew he was a mess. He drank too much. He didn't sleep enough. When he did, it was because he drank too much, so basically a big vicious circle there. His waking hours had always been full of nightmares and now they followed him into his last place for respite, his sleep. Hell had done that. Burned away all of his dreams, his hope, any tiny bit of optimism he'd had left.

Yeah, he was a mess, but he did his best to keep it from being so spectacularly obvious to his brother that he was only a few cents short of buying a one way ticket on the crazy train.

"Dean?"

The voice was wary and Dean's eyes snapped up to see that Sam had reappeared from the bathroom. He was wearing an old pair of sweatpants and a faded, stretched out v-neck t-shirt that needed to be replaced, but would have to wait until they got someplace that would take his cards or Dean managed to find a game and make some cash. One thing was for sure. They were out of this one-horse, cash-only town come morning.

"Squeaky clean?"

"Yeah," Sam answered, still uncertain. "Your turn."

"About time. I've got dirt in some very unfortunate places. I mean, seriously, you wouldn't think it could manage to get-"

"Dude," Sam cut him off, "you had me at unfortunate."

"Don't blame me. Stupid ghosts," Dean griped. "They get clobbered with a shovel and get all bent outta shape."

Sam sat down on the other bed. "You might be pissed, too, if you were buried alive for no good reason."

"No good reason?" Dean asked, one eyebrow arched.

Back in the cemetery, Timothy Miller's rage had been overwhelming. His supposed friend had not only made the arrangements to get rid of his unborn child, but had brought about the death of the woman he loved through such an ungodly and dangerous thing to do. That rage had been coupled with guilt that he and Molly hadn't waited and she had become pregnant in the first place. He'd known to wait until they could be married, even though her father didn't like him and it would have taken time to wear him down. But he hadn't waited. Seeing her every day, but not being able to have her had been torture.

Beyond the rage and guilt, however, was the nearly unbearable weight of Timothy's sorrow, his loss. Because of Dana's actions, Timothy had no child and the woman he loved was dead. She had been absolutely everything to him. She had been his life, his whole world. And his so-called friend had thought he was doing the _right_ thing, but what about _anything_ he'd done had been right?

To say that Dean had been feeling Timothy's pain might be a bit of an understatement. Dean had broken the first seal and started everything, then Sam had come in batting clean-up, cluelessly trying to fix things but actually ensuring the world was completely screwed.

"It's not like he meant for her to die," Sam said. "He was trying to clean up Timothy's mess. It just happened."

"Dana didn't even ask Timothy. They were friends and he couldn't be bothered to talk to him before he went and ruined everything." And there was the real sticking point for Dean. Sure Sam had let Lucifer out, but it was the year of lying, the refusal to listen to someone he should have trusted more than anyone else. It was the betrayal of the bond between them.

"He was trying to help, Dean," Sam said again, his tone just condescending enough to really get under Dean's skin.

Just trying to help. Where had Dean heard that one before? "And wanting to help is all that matters, is it? Who cares how he did it, or how it turns out in the end?"

Sam instantly deflated, the same pinched, guilty look on his face that he'd been wearing ever since they'd been back together, and Dean grimaced, feeling like he'd kicked a puppy.

"I know…" Sam cleared his throat nervously. "I know I should have listened to you, but-"

"Always a 'but', isn't there, Sammy?"

"But I wasn't thinking straight," Sam pressed on. "I know that. But I'm thinking straight now." His eyes came up to meet Dean's, sincerity and steadiness there where Dean had been seeing only lies and deception before. "I just… Just don't hold it against me forever, ok?"

Dean sighed heavily and decided to go for flat out honesty. "It takes what time it takes, man." He didn't know how long it would take before he could trust Sam completely again. Even now he was looking for signs that Sam was lying or needing to score some demon blood. Finally, Dean shrugged. "But you know me. I've got the attention span of a gnat. I can only stay pissed for so long."

"Whatever," Sam said tiredly. "At least we got these two squared away." The _better than we can say for us_ was understood.

Dean sighed and offered an olive branch. "Not like they didn't both have something to do with it. Tim shoulda kept it in his pants and Dana shoulda known better than to go to some country quack who probably worked on Molly right after he worked on Farmer Smith's prize mule. It's no wonder she got sick and died."

Sam gritted his teeth like he was trying to keep from saying something else, but he nodded, accepting the statement for what it was. It was as close as Dean was going to come to saying they'd both screwed up and Lucifer was free because of it.

Dean wasn't sure what Sam had seen while they were buried, but he had a good idea. The ghost had shown them what had happened, and Dean had seem himself crack Sam over the head with a shovel. He'd known it wasn't really him and it wasn't really Sam, but did it matter? He'd watched himself put Sam in old Abe's coffin, knowing he wasn't dead, and that he was either going to remain unconscious and suffocate inside the coffin or wake up and still suffocate. Timothy had silently cried the entire time he was burying his friend alive, yet he'd still done it.

Dean thought of Sam and once again vowed not to let Detroit happen. Yes, he was still angry. Yes, he still had some serious trust issues, major trust issues even. Yes, Sam had screwed up beyond belief. But Dean couldn't just bury Sam and move on. They had to stick together and figure things out no matter how much they wanted to kill each other sometimes.

"So," Sam said into the awkward silence, "you gonna take a shower sometime soon?"

"You tryin' to tell me something?" Dean asked.

"You're dirty?"

"Is that a question?"

"I dunno, is it?"

It was as if the bubble of pressure surrounding them had broken and they both broke into grins at the same time. It kept happening. The pressure would build and build, then suddenly burst under its own weight before beginning to build again. It would just take time. The pressure was already slower to build than it had been.

"Go shower," Sam said. "I'm hungry. We can go find something to eat when you're done."

Dean frowned. "You gonna make me go back to that diner that won't take cards?"

"You magically find another place to eat in this town?"

"No."

"Then yes." Sam smiled, all innocence.

"Dude, I got almost nothing left."

"That's because you blew all your cash last week on a cubic yard of beef jerky. Don't go cryin' now cause you're broke."

Dean grinned sheepishly. "Oh, yeah."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Yeah."

"Jerky's expensive!" Dean said defensively. Sam just looked at him, showing absolutely no pity. "It was _homemade_, man! How often do you find homemade jerky?"

"Go shower," Sam ordered.

"Fine." Dean quickly gathered up fresh clothing and headed for the shower. "Just be a minute."

Dean closed the bathroom door and sucked in a deep lungful of air, feeling like it was the first time in days he could breathe properly. If being short of cash was the biggest problem he and Sam had, then it was a pretty decent day. Things weren't good, and even now he was wondering what Sam was up to now that he was out of Dean's sight, but it was getting better. They just needed time.

They'd get there. They would be the team they used to be. They just needed everybody to leave them alone long enough to get it right. If they could do that… then maybe… just maybe they could save the world.

* * *

_Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it._


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